Love is lost
by vergissmeinnicht
Summary: When Face comes home one night, Charissa is gone.  Set before the movie


_Author's Note: English is not my mother tongue, so please be gentle. Still, if you find any grammatical or vocabulary mistakes, I ask you to point them out. Hopefully, I won't make them again._

* * *

**T**he latest mission had not gone according to plan. Hannibal had deemed the mission a success, but even he could not quite fit the various injuries his team had sustained into his plan. Eventually, they had agreed to call it a relative success - the ‚relative' part obviously referring to the wounded.  
When the van pulled up in front of Face's apartment, he did not jump out as he would have done usually. Instead he leveled himself out of the backseat with great care, wary of his left ankle which sported a brightly coloured bandage. One might've argued that there was the slightest hint of exaggeration, an air of defiance in the way he moved to the sidewalk and glared at Hannibal when he was done.  
"You'll be all right?", the latter asked, pointedly ignoring the dark look he was receiving. He had done no wrong, as far as he was concerned. It was the lieutenant himself who had insisted he was fine one too many times and ended up in a dead faint at the edge - admittedly, the far edge, but still in the vicinity - of a battle field.  
"I'll be fine", came the firm reply.  
Both ignored Bosco's snort from within the car; and Hannibal nodded once. "Call us if you need anything."  
"Charissa's with me."  
He supposed that Face had said that to keep Hannibal from worrying but he couldn't help stiffening at the words. There was no love lost between Hannibal and Charissa Sosa; he imagined she even hated him more than he ever could. In the end, she had to know that things would never work out between Face and her, and she had to know that she would be the cause for their eventual break-up.  
"Call!" , he repeated and signalled to Bosco that they could depart, just as Face turned away and started up the stairs to his apartment.

**T**he apartment lay in darkness when Face arrived, but he was too tired to care. He thrust his jacket onto the couch and made straight for the bedroom. He stubbed his toes on the bedside table and could almost hear Hannibal scolding him; being stubborn, pretending something wasn't needed - be it a helping hand or light -, was what had gotten him into the mess he owed his broken ankle to - also, the strangely coloured bandage adorning his ankle. It was courtesy of Murdock who had insisted he help Face and the latter hadn't had the heart to - heck, truth be told, he actually _liked_ that thing.  
Diving onto the bed, he wanted nothing more than roll over and go to sleep, but suddenly he hesitated. In the middle of the bed, there was ... something. A piece of paper. A smile rose to his lips and Face flipped over. He reached for the bedside lamp and, switching it on, took a look at the note. Except ... there was no note, just a blank page.  
Puzzled, he turned it over but there was nothing written on the rear site either. Frowning he prepared to switch off the lamp, but something caught his eye: a drawer that had been left ajar.  
For practical purposes they had had only one dresser in the bedroom, and Charissa had assigned each of them two drawers; she could be, as he had found out then, a keen divider. From drawers to space, there wasn't a thing she wouldn't split up; of course, while this might imply that she was a generous person, it was really the opposite. First, she divided and then she conquered. What she had made clear from the beginning to be his had gradually become hers. Strangely enough, he had never minded.  
The drawer proved to be empty, when Face pulled it open. As did the one above it - her's by definition - that he had drawn open without thinking. He stopped then, as a thought rose in him and a sense of foreboding tugged at his heart.  
He turned sharply, and as quickly as he could, he limped to the bathroom. He tried to ignore the sudden stinging reminder of his injury, but found he could not and leaned heavily against the door frame, one hand already on the bathroom door. He pushed it open - though he felt suddenly hesitant, he didn't pause - and switched on the light. One glance was enough to take it all in - the unexpected emptiness where only days before Charissa's various soaps, shampoos and moisturisers had clustered the edge of the wash-bowl. There was no need to take a look at the cabinets, just as there was no need to move, once satisfied, to the kitchen and examine the interior of every available cupboard, but he did it anyway.  
He shouldn't have been surprised that Charissa had apparently taken three quarters of their cutlery, as well as every second pot and pan. He was taken aback though, when he realized she had even boxed the fridge magnets. He laughed a little at that.  
He stopped short of opening the fridge; he wasn't hungry at the moment and he wasn't sure he could take it, should he discover that she had also raided the fridge's contents and left him with something as ridiculous as one bottle of beer or half an apple. You couldn't get drunk on either and the only reason to grab a beer now would've been to do just that.  
When he was done in the kitchen, he went to the living room, dragging his hurt foot slightly and trying hard to concentrate just on that - the pain emitting from his swollen ankle -, but he stopped short, when he found the keys.  
Instead of a note, Charissa had left him his spare keys.  
The pain he had just felt faded quickly into the background, only to be replaced by something far more crushing: the knowledge of rejection. It didn't matter then that he felt thus before or that he should have known the moment, he found the empty drawer - for as any man he had clung to hope for as long as he possibly could -, what mattered now was only that she had left him - and that he had loved her.

**The End**


End file.
